


Any Way You Want It

by hibiscus_tea



Series: making the most of the night [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: "Platonic" Heat Sharing, Alpha Shiro (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Omega Keith (Voltron), Pet Names, Pining Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 22:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12662781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibiscus_tea/pseuds/hibiscus_tea
Summary: Heats don't last as long when there's an alpha involved, so the practical choice - for the sake of Voltron, for the sake of the universe - is for Keith to ask Shiro to help with his heat.And for the sake of Voltron and the universe, Shiro accepts.He just hadn't realised how many of their carefully-maintained boundaries would be blown to dust in the process._Shiro buries his cheek in the pillow beside him. Below the hazy scent of heat and sex, the fabric smells like Keith.





	Any Way You Want It

**Author's Note:**

> (That's The Way You Need It)

They shower independently, which feels significant.

 

After all that intensity, after that soul-shaking intimacy, Shiro can understand that Keith might need a moment alone. So when Keith rolls out of bed and disappears into the bathroom, Shiro doesn’t follow.

 

Should they sleep apart as well? Should he leave?

 

Everything in him - from his base instincts to his shaking thighs to his lovesick heart - keep him there in that bed as the shower runs. He can feel the beat of his pulse at his groin, the sting of nails down his back, the ache of his scalp where Keith pulled too hard at his hair.

 

Despite the initial practicality of Keith’s suggestion that Shiro help him through his heat, the reality of the situation is more along the lines of a _terrible_ idea.

 

Shiro buries his cheek in the pillow beside him. Below the hazy scent of heat and sex, the fabric smells like Keith.

 

By the time Keith is out of the shower, Shiro is half asleep on Keith’s pillow. There’s the sound of footsteps, a pause at the side of the bed. When it goes on for too long, Shiro cracks an eye open.

 

Keith’s hair drips, his brown nipples are peaked from the cool of the room, his knuckles are tight around the knot of his towel.

 

“Should I… uh- put on clothes?”

 

Oh. Another barrier. It’s just like Keith to shatter every one of Shiro’s carefully constructed walls and then build them back up like an apology just as the dust starts to settle.

 

Shiro bites back a yawn, body still humming with abstract pleasure. Indulgently, he lets his eyes rove over Keith’s body, and then flicks his gaze up to meet those hesitant eyes.

 

“No, he says. And then, to clear the air with a little pragmatism: “skin-on-skin contact reduces the duration and intensity of a heat.”

 

Keith ducks his head, eyes hidden by wet black hair, and then he untucks the knot of his towel, letting it drop to the floor. He climbs into bed, casual with his body in an utterly nonsexual sense. In tune with the way his muscles move, with his own perfectly offbeat mannerisms.

 

“Did you leave me any hot water?” says Shiro, once Keith is settled.

 

There is a deliberate pause.

 

“No.”

 

Shiro laughs, rubbing absently at the print of teeth below his collarbone.

 

“Figures,” he ribs, hauling himself out of bed.

 

“What does _that_ mean,” says Keith, and when Shiro looks over at him it’s just a teasing grin and those strange-coloured eyes peeking out over the sheets. Covers pulled up to his chin, hair wet on his pillow.

 

Shiro huffs and turns his head so Keith can’t catch his smile as he shuts himself in the bathroom. He’ll let Keith stew on that for a moment, while he braves the ice-cold shower.

 

And it really is that cold. Deceptively lukewarm when he steps in, the water quickly gets him shivering as he soaps down as swiftly and thoroughly as he can manage.

 

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” he gasps as he tries to shampoo his hair, and he thinks he can hear Keith laughing.

 

He steps out, and towels down vigorously.

 

“Thanks for that,” he says. The bedroom is marginally warmer than the bathroom, but Shiro still keeps his towel tucked around his waist.

 

“You’re welcome,” deadpans Keith. And there’s that dry tease to his voice, recementing the momentarily shaky ground of their friendship.

 

But even as that builds, the intimacy fades. Keith’s body language, even under the covers, is visibly closed off. The lines are being redrawn.

 

They’ll only have to break them back down again, later. When the next wave of heat comes.

 

All the same, without the haze of the heat to guide their actions, Shiro has the presence of mind to feel uncomfortable. It’s almost worse that he can remember a time when he was completely comfortable in his body, when he wasn’t aware of his scars, of the muscle built from necessity, of the arm. When he didn’t have those things.

 

It must show - something in his stance must shift - because Keith’s expression changes minutely. The quiet goes on a beat or so too long.

 

“Are you staying?” asks Keith.

 

“Is your heat over?”

 

They both know the answer.

 

“Yes, I’m staying,” affirms Shiro. He hangs his towel up beside his side of the bed, and then slips under the covers, aware of Keith’s eyes on him the whole time.  

 

Keith doesn’t say anything. In the quiet dark, Shiro’s eyes close, and his breathing steadies. It’s the easiest that he’s approached sleep in months. Something keeps calling him back, though. A slight shifting next to him.

 

It takes him about ten minutes to say something.

 

“Keith.”

 

A pause. “Sorry.”

 

“You should get some rest,” lectures Shiro, but it’s more of a sleepy mumble. He pulls the clovers closer around him, and then reaches over, eyes closed, to tuck the covers further up Keith’s chest.

 

“I’m _trying_ ,” whispers Keith, frustrated. The shifting of his head on the pillow. A stretch of silence, and then: “you don’t smell,” he admits.

 

Shiro’s forehead creases, eyes still shut as a matter of principle at this point. “What?”

 

“Your scent washed off in the shower,” he says quietly. “It’s not as strong.”

 

“Oh.” He takes a slow inhale, pushing off the haze of sleep for a moment so he can pick out Keith’s form in the dim room. The lights are never fully off in the Castleship - nothing lower than a dim glow. “Come here,” he offers. He touches Keith’s arm, guides him closer.

 

Keith comes a little hesitantly, even after everything they’ve exchanged. Shiro draws him in, and cups a hand at Keith’s damp hair.

 

“Thanks,” murmurs Keith, with his head at the curve of Shiro’s shoulder. His breath fans over Shiro’s throat. An arm around Shiro’s waist, their thighs touching. His nose brushes Shiro’s scent gland. Intimate.

 

Alone at night, Shiro has ached for this.

 

“You just have to ask,” he promises. “Whatever makes this easier.”

 

They breathe against each other.

 

“You’re kind of cold,” observes Keith. His knuckles brush Shiro’s side.

 

“Huh,” says Shiro, letting his eyes drift shut, “wonder why.”

 

Keith noses at his throat, a move almost startling in its sweetness. “Shut up.”

 

Shiro hums, adjusts the covers around Keith’s bare shoulders. “S’alright. You’re keeping me warm.”

 

He’s so close to sleep, drifting there easily between Keith’s breaths. Callused fingers drift over his ribcage, a smooth glide leaving goosebumps on his skin. A slight shift against him. The drag of a palm along his side.

 

Quiet. “Shiro.”

 

Silence, like Keith hopes he’s too asleep to answer.

 

“Mm?” Shiro touches soothing fingertips to the nape of Keith’s neck. “What d’you need?”

 

There’s a slightly frustrated sigh, Keith’s forehead presses into his shoulder. A noise at the back of his throat. Shiro knows that noise.

 

He reaches to touch the inside of his own thigh. “I can’t knot anytime soon. An hour or so,” he guesses. A touch behind Keith’s ear, thumbing at the smooth skin.

 

“It’s not that,” says Keith, low. “I just feel, uh.” A catching breath. “Empty.”

 

“Oh,” says Shiro. He thinks for a moment. “I can get you a toy?”

 

Keith’s hand leaves his skin, rests on the mattress instead. “No,” he says. “It’s fine.”

 

Shiro chases the intimacy, lost in the leap from one split second to the next. His mouth brushes Keith’s hairline. “Fingers?” he murmurs, and there’s the touch of his lips to Keith’s skin.

 

For a moment, he thinks Keith might close off to him completely. But then there’s a slight nod, the light brush of fingertips along his side.

 

“Come up here,” whispers Shiro, and Keith lets his body be guided. Shiro settles Keith on top of him, warm and heavy, elbows on the mattress.

 

“Is that okay?” checks Keith, distributing his weight.

 

“I’m the one who put you there,” points out Shiro. Keith’s cock is half-hard against his hip, their breaths fall in tandem. “You run really hot,” he observes.

 

“I’m in heat,” says Keith.

 

Shiro smiles up at the dark ceiling. “Yeah, alright,” he says.

 

He smooths a hand down Keith’s warm back, indulgent in tracing the exact curve of Keith’s spine. With his own leg, he draws Keith’s thigh open, and dips his fingers below the dimples in his back.

 

Keith hums his contentment, even at the simple touch.

 

Nosing at his hairline, Shiro dips two fingers over Keith’s hole, still hot to the touch from earlier. The slick washed away in the shower, so Shiro gets the pleasure of pressing curious fingertips to a dry hole, dipping a finger just past the rim. He draws out the slick pooling there to rub between Keith’s cheeks, getting him wet again.

 

“Shiro,” murmurs Keith, impatient.

 

Shiro huffs a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”

 

He presses a firm hand to the small of Keith’s back, and then pushes two fingers inside him. It’s a slow glide - Keith isn’t as wet as he was when he’d first let Shiro touch him. It’s tight, but he gets his fingers buried to the second knuckle and Keith sighs against him, fingers curling against his shoulder.

 

“Better?” murmurs Shiro. He curls an arm steady around Keith’s waist, palm smoothing up his side.

 

“Yeah,” breathes Keith. His thumb presses into Shiro’s skin.

 

It’s a sleepy, slow glide. A push and pull as Keith sighs and shifts against him, as slick pools between his knuckles and drips down Keith’s perineum.

 

With every new wave of slick, Shiro can feel the scent of it heavy on his tongue. He wants to drown in it.

 

“Is this usual?” he murmurs, dipping his fingertips just inside the rim, stretching Keith out achingly slowly.

 

“It’s usually pretty hard to sleep,” says Keith, palm warm, cupping the back of Shiro’s neck.

 

“No,” breathes Shiro, “I mean. Do you get this wet?”

 

He presses two blunt fingers in, sliding all the way to the hilt with a sloppy noise. He hits an easy rhythm, plunging his fingers in, with Keith’s hole tight around his knuckles.

 

“Um-” Keith squirms, cock hard and hot against Shiro’s hip. “It’s more, with an alpha, I think.” His mouth touches Shiro’s throat. “With you.”

 

Shutting his eyes tight, Shiro swallows.

 

“Is it-” Keith’s breaths hitch. “Uh. Fine?”

 

Shiro’s fingers press at Keith’s side, holds him tight. “It’s fine,” he assures. Too truthful, he admits it against the delicate shell of Keith’s ear. “God, it’s hot.”

 

Keith’s moan is too loud for the quiet room, for the slow-soft atmosphere.

 

“Keith,” whispers Shiro, a hand in his hair, a third finger pressing deep inside him. “ _Keith_.”

 

And Keith moves against him, the head of his cock slipping through the precome dripped on Shiro’s skin. His breaths are tiny, desperate pants. He lets Shiro hold him close and touch his hair and fuck him slow and sweet.

 

Shiro draws his fingers out, hushing Keith’s needy noises with kisses brushed to his temple. Sweat sticks their skin, but he reaches between their bodies to wrap a slick hand around Keith’s cock. His palm is wet with slick, and it smooths the glide against his stomach.

 

He turns his head, noses at Keith’ cheek until the angle changes, until Keith kisses him.

 

The hand from Keith’s hair slides down over the rolling muscles of his back, to fill his hole again. Three fingers slide in deep, and Shiro just rocks them in, kisses Keith through the whimpers, through the wet noises of his hole stuffed with Shiro’s thick fingers.

 

Keith’s mouth is plush, and he kisses messy, teeth catching Shiro’s swollen lips. It’s easy to drink the moans right off that sweet bottom lip.

 

Shiro takes a shaky lungful of air, noses along Keith’s cheekbone. “Feeling good, sweetheart?”

 

The endearment falls from his mouth without approval, but Keith makes a sound like a sob and bucks his hips, hard cock sliding right into Shiro’s fist. He nods fervently, breaths fanning against Shiro’s hot cheek.

 

“You like that,” breathes Shiro, dragging messy kisses down Keith’s neck. There’s the shake and swell of Keith’s breaths in his ears, and he doesn’t have a hold on what he’s saying.

 

“ _Yeah_ ,” nods Keith, palm at Shiro’s jaw as a hot mouth opens at the curve of his neck. He groans, and Shiro feels the full-body shiver under his tongue. “I like--,” he loses his words, “when you--” a gasp, “like you love me.”

 

“Keith,” says Shiro, caught up in his scent and the way he moves, the earnest little moans at the back of his throat. The ball of Keith’s foot fits just under the arch of Shiro’s ankle, the muscles of his back roll against Shiro’s palm, their skin sticks with sweat.

 

“I’m close,” warns Keith between breaths, a hand on Shiro’s jaw. His fingertips slide over the shaved hair behind Shiro’s ear. It’s a guiding touch. Something protective in the way Keith’s thumb fits against his cheekbone.

 

“Come on, sweetheart,” urges Shiro, low and breathless. Their foreheads knock together lightly, and they share breaths as Keith’s fingers curl into Shiro’s hair, as that pretty mouth drops open. Shiro steals a kiss, meets Keith’s eyes. They’re heavy-lidded with pleasure below messy, furrowed eyebrows.

 

Keith tightens around Shiro’s fingers in little jolts, thighs shaking. It’s like the paint half-dried on a masterpiece as he falls apart, messy and real, tears shining in his eyes as his cock flexes, needy in Shiro’s fist.

 

“That’s it,” sighs Shiro, fingers working tight and quick around the slick head of Keith’s cock, “I’ve got you.”

 

There’s a certain sound that Keith makes when he comes, a shattered little moan, a hitch of his breath. Shiro can’t get enough of it. Already, it’s like a hook to his navel, like the first wave of heat-scent, like the breath knocked out of him with a kiss. Keith arches in his arms, and Shiro tucks him closer, watches Keith’s lashes flutter as he comes, the sweet wrinkle of his nose as he shakes through the crest of it.

 

Leaving off his cock, Shiro kisses Keith’s slack mouth. He rocks his fingers in slow and sweet, works Keith through the steady pulses of pleasure that follow. Eventually, the shaky breaths slow to an even rhythm.

 

“Alright?” asks Shiro, nosing at Keith’s flushed cheek.

 

Keith’s hand unwinds from his hair. “Yeah.” Then, a moment later: “Thanks.”

 

The apology is heavily implied.

 

Shiro sighs, and reaches over the side of the bed for the pack of wipes. He keeps an arm around Keith to steady him, fingers still tucked inside, trying his best to simulate the durability of a knot.

 

Despite this, he manages to clear off most of the mess between their stomachs, and the traces of slick between Keith’s thighs.

 

“You should get some sleep,” says Shiro. He drops the wipe onto the floor beside the bed, unwilling to let Keith roll off and settle on the other side of the mattress. That distance feels insurmountable.

 

Keith sighs. “I’m didn’t mean-”

 

“It’s fine,” says Shiro, cutting off the well-meaning apology. He fights a yawn, the second round of exhaustion setting in. “Just sleep.”

 

Shiro doesn’t let himself make too many mistakes. He can’t afford it, at this point. But Keith noses at his scent gland, and the arch of his foot smooths over Shiro’s ankle. Their breaths rise and fall in tandem. They’re alive for every inhale and exhale. They’ve made it this far.

 

He thinks back to earlier - face buried in Keith’s pillow as the shower ran. Again, this a _terrible_ idea.

 

“Okay,” says Keith, low, quiet. Intimate. His breaths even out, slow and deep.

 

Shiro lets his eyes close.

 

It’s a mistake he’s willing to make.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write a "platonic" heat fic for forever and I never got around to it. So here's part of one? 
> 
> Should I do more with this? Let me know what you think of it!
> 
> Send me other prompts on [tumblr](https://vers-shiro.tumblr.com/)


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